Haunting Refrain (3 page)

He had just decided to try the schnitzel one night when a woman laden with gold bracelets and trailing a red silk scarf waltzed in. He knew immediately that she was Ashburton.

Before he could stand and speak, a frowning redhead burst through the door behind her. McGuire? Maybe she wasn't senile, but there was definitely something peculiar about her. A faint, unpleasant odor wafted his way. If she’d change her perfume and invest in a hairbrush, he speculated, she might not be too bad.

John studied her quietly while she fussed at Ashburton. Something about her seemed familiar, tweaked at his memory. Surely he’d remember someone so . . . vivid. He couldn’t think of a better word. On top of her head, a precarious knot of hair appeared to be held in place by a single pencil. It wasn't very effective, judging by the amount of hair that had already escaped. As the women moved closer, he could see the broken point on the blue pencil. It matched the rest of her clothes—a man's blue work shirt that came almost to the knees of her faded jeans, and a pair of worn running shoes. He’d be willing to bet the counter where she worked came to just above her waist—evidenced by a horizontal streak of brownish stains across the front of the shirt.

She was still grousing. “
Venice
, why did we have to do this right now? I had to leave the darkroom to meet you here.”

“My dear, do I detect the odor of rotten eggs? You really should be more careful in the kitchen.”

“That's sepia toner, thank you very much. I was not cooking, I was working.” She tucked a long tangle of hair behind her ear.

Thinking it a good time to intervene, John stepped forward. “Mrs. Ashburton? I'm John Gerrard.”

Venice
, ignoring Kate, touched his hand. “Please call me
Venice
. And this”—she indicated without looking at her companion—“is my friend Kate McGuire. Kate, this is the young man I told you about.”
 
She smiled and took the chair he held for her.

Kate, looking embarrassed, shook John's hand and dropped into a chair. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were here. I was just telling
Venice
I don't think this is a good idea. I don't see how we can possibly help you.”

Venice
interrupted before Kate could say more. “He understands, Kate. But he’s trying to find out all he can about Kelly Landrum.”

The sudden appearance of Helmut Kusch, the restaurant's burly owner, halted their conversation. He carried a round aluminum tray loaded with white crockery. “I know that it is coffee for you, Kate.” He placed two cups on the table so the handles were parallel to the edge. “I serve only coffee and tea, none of that pop. I brought coffee because the tea is not made and also,” he said to John, “you do not look like a tea drinker.
Venice
must wait.”

“Coffee's fine, thanks.” John looked up at the big, flour-dusted man. He looked more like a Monday-night wrestler than a baker, but the mouth-watering scent of baking bread followed him from the kitchen, and John was hooked.

Venice
nodded at the reference to her tea and asked for a slice of Sacher torte. “You needn't be afraid to eat in here. Helmut uses only real food—no artificial ingredients—and he
does
all the cooking himself.”

“
Mmm
, Helmut, I want a big piece of apple strudel.” Kate smiled at the man towering above her.

“That sounds good. Apple strudel for me, too,” John said without looking up. He watched the light shining on the nimbus of bright hair that framed Kate's face. Every time she moved her head, another strand slid out of the knot. He was fascinated, waiting for the pencil to fall.

Helmut took the orders in silence and went back to the kitchen.
Venice
turned to John. “First, let me explain how we found Kelly. Kate saw her first.”

“
Venice
!” Kate glared at the older woman, clearly disapproving. “We didn’t
find
her. And I did not
see
her. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I have no information about Kelly Landrum. I am not a psychic, Mr. Gerrard.” Her smile had a fixed look.

“Please, call me John."
Psychic?
Inwardly, he groaned. “What sort of contact did you have with her?”

Venice
answered him, dismissing Kate’s threatening expression. “First, I should tell you about the group. We participate in a parapsychology research group under Professor Martin Carver at the college. The professor has received a grant for his work with paranormal phenomena. Each person in the group is a volunteer, and we all tested above average in ability, although I must say, some of us are certainly more gifted than others. Kate is very gifted in a limited way.”

Kate, her elbow on the table and her chin propped in her hand, sighed. “Believe me, Mister—John, there's nothing to tell. We can't help you.”

Venice
continued as if Kate hadn't spoken. “We were doing a test, guessing about the owners of some unidentified items that people had donated to Martin's project.”

Pleased to find that at least Venice could be informative when it suited her—John didn't hold out much hope for Kate—he asked, “Did the professor know whose things they were?”

“No,” Kate said. “One of his grad students logs them in, and after we've guessed, Martin compares the guesses with the log. Then, if necessary, he calls the owners for more information.”

Helmut interrupted again by backing through the swinging doors with a large tray. He placed a china teapot in front of
Venice
, realigned Kate’s cup, and freshened the coffees. As he served the torte and strudel, he grumbled, “Another waitress has quit. These young people of today are lazy good-for-nothings. So I must cook and serve as well until I can find another.”

“You frighten them away. You rant and rave about everything new—all the things they love,”
Venice
said, fingering a gold ankh hanging from a chain around her neck.

“What do you know? And now you try to corrupt a sweet girl like Kate.” Helmut glared at
Venice
and spoke to John. “Kate is a good girl. Don't let her listen to this gypsy foolishness from
Venice
.”

“What gypsy foolishness?” John asked. Both combatants continued as if he hadn’t spoken. He wondered if Kate would object to the
girl
, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“It is better to say nothing when you don't know what you're talking about, Helmut.”
Venice
jangled her bracelets and started on the rich layers of the Sacher torte.

“Who doesn't know? You are taking an innocent girl and making her crazy with all these visions and spirits.” Helmut was obviously prepared to stay and pursue the matter.

“Come on, you two.” Kate turned to John. “Sometimes I feel like I’m in the middle of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Don't pay any attention to them. They aren't happy if they don't have anything to argue about.”

Helmut, muttering to
himself
, returned to the kitchen, and
Venice
returned to her subject. “Don't mind Helmut. He thinks I dabble in the black arts, or some such thing. He dotes on Kate, so I haven't told him about Kate's gift.”

“What gift? And why does he dote on Kate?” John asked, envying Helmut his escape to the kitchen.
Doting
wasn’t the word he would have chosen for the look Helmut gave Kate. The guy wasn’t as old as he’d first appeared, either.
Probably not over forty.
Venice
’s voice broke into his speculation about Helmut’s intentions, drawing his attention back to their fragmented conversation. “She took his picture. Kate is gifted in psychometry. Touch. So when she chose her article, it happened.”

“What happened?” John's patience was disappearing, and he found
Venice
's explanations more than a little sparse. At least Kate had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Kate picked up a white headband. She saw a beautiful young woman being strangled.”

“
Venice
!” John saw Kate’s gaze flick in his direction. Through gritted teeth, she said to him, “That's not exactly right. It's probably nothing at all.”

So, she didn't know any more than
Venice
, but at least she admitted it. He figured he’d just wasted the morning and fifteen bucks buying coffee and cakes for two ditzy women. Actually, it was kind of funny. He could see that McGuire wanted to kill Ashburton and was trying to hide it. With an effort, John maintained a solemn expression. “What, exactly, did you see?”

“It's difficult to describe. Usually it’s just a flash of knowing, like I’m suddenly aware that
Venice
’s purse is behind the sofa. It's more of a feeling, although I sometimes see things—maybe a glimpse of the sofa frame. It’s sort of vague, the way you see something out of the corner of your eye.”

“She does this when she touches something,”
Venice
clarified.

“Yes, I understand. But what was this feeling you had?” John tried not to look at his watch. Next they’d be pulling rabbits out of
Venice
’s scarf—or the rat’s nest on McGuire’s head.

“This may not even be about Kelly. It may not mean anything.” Kate was obviously reluctant to tell him, but she continued. “The first time I picked up the sweatband, I felt terrible fear.
Almost panic.
Someone was very angry with her.”

“We've done this twice, with the headband.”
Venice
said. “Go ahead, dear. Tell him the rest.”

“
Venice
, this is a bad idea. We don’t know if it was real or my imagination. I’m so sorry,” she said to John, standing to leave. “I really don’t want to do this.”

“Kate, sit down,”
Venice
said. “Tell him what you saw and let him decide. It may help.”

“Yes, please go on.”

“Someone was strangling her—but it may not have been Kelly—I don't know who it was.” She shivered and touched her throat. “It was terrible.”

Interested in spite of himself, John leaned forward. “And what did you see,
Venice
?”

“I saw a tall man in an aura of darkness. This lovely woman was terrified of him, and he was raging at her. They were in a parking lot. When she tried to run, he grabbed her around the neck and strangled her.” She took the last bite of the torte and finished with a sip of tea.

Kate, who had abandoned her strudel halfway through, raised her eyebrows.
“My, my,
Venice
.
You did see a lot.”

John asked, “Can you describe either the woman or the man? What makes you think it was Kelly? Did you say the man was dark?”

Kate answered, not giving
Venice
a chance. “I'm really not sure of anything. I thought she had dark hair and was tall—I could see—before he grabbed me—” She stumbled and started over. “She was tall enough to look down on the roof of her car. I'm not even positive the other person was a man. It's just an impression I had.”

“You saw the top of the car, though. Describe it.”

“Oh.” She looked blank for a second.
“Dark.
Maybe dark blue, and not new, not shiny.
But wet,” she added, sounding surprised. “It must have been raining.”

“Wrinkles, dear.
Wrinkles,”
Venice
said, absently pouring herself another cup of tea.

Kate blinked at her.
“Wrinkles?”

“Your forehead.
Don’t frown,”
Venice
whispered for all to hear.